


Full

by AboardAMoose



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childbirth, Frottage, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pregnant Sex, erotic birth, sex in labour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AboardAMoose/pseuds/AboardAMoose
Summary: A heavily pregnant Aragorn is woken from his dream.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 6
Kudos: 120





	1. Chapter 1

He was floating. The ocean all about him was a heavy comfort. A warm, cocooning weight. 

There was peace in the darkness. Far above him, the moon’s pull and release tugged at the tides in time with his lungs’ expansion and fall. He thought perhaps that he might be able to see Ithil’s face if he strained, but the impulse wafted away in the fug. 

There was something lapping at his consciousness, some disturbance in the space about him. No. Within him. 

“Shh.” Was the water rushing between stones? “Go back to sleep.”

The warmth and weight increased at his back, grounding him, and for a moment the sea vanished. Featherlight lips nudged the soft skin beneath his ear. Legolas’ voice whispered to him. “Sleep.”

He drifted, down, down into the vat of rest. Wasn’t it strange he wasn’t drowning? 

The ocean was endless. Empty. Dark. He was still sinking, though the surface never seemed to recede. It had swallowed him whole, every part of… 

What was that thought? It swam by then… 

Empty. If the water was empty, he’d be alone. What, then, was this pulling deep within him? 

When his fist clenched, he felt his pillow crumple, heard the constriction of linen and feather. 

“Legolas…”

“I know, melda nin.”

The water called to him. The waves still purled at his skin, reaching for him, singing for his return. Yet it was Legolas’ touch which trickled down his side, tracing its way beneath the swell of his stomach. Legolas’ touch that stirred the current. Legolas’ touch that paused, hovering, barely there. 

Why did his husband stop?

What would make him start again? 

Did Legolas not know it was impossible to move when sleep lay in such thick layers all about, numbing his tongue, turning his bones to lead? It took an inhuman amount to shift his enceinte form backwards, just enough for his knees to fall open, granting entrance.

Those slim elven fingers grazed furred thighs. The rasp was louder than any word in the darkness. The back of that hand brushed his hardening cock. And kept going. Pushed deeper. There. Slick, swollen folds, formed just two weeks before. 

The babes inside Aragorn were as still as the night about them. But the touch set his breath falling. His mouth dropped open, as lax as his legs, his head tipping back into Legolas’ shoulder, his body slowly unfurling under the elf’s touch.

There was nothing in the world beyond the slow slide of those two fingers. Sensitive nerves flared to life, the archer’s fingertips lighting a trail of tiny fires at the lips of Aragorn’s body, before dragging wetness up to his cock.

The human bobbed on the swirling ebb and flow of sensation, adrift, perfectly content to be carried where Legolas desired. There was nothing but his mate’s hand, now circling his entrance, promising him wholeness, now cradling the length of him, now the thumb at his head, oh please -

The embers of arousal in Aragorn’s groin had begun to glow brighter, burning off the dregs of sleep enough for him to unstick his tongue. “Inside.”

“Not yet.” He could hear the growl of wanting in Legolas’ voice, could feel the blaze of his hardness against his back.

Aragorn’s body was shifting now, making little involuntary jerks of movement when Legolas’ touch sent nerves flaring. The elf’s single hand continued pumping lazily, only just tight enough, only just fast enough, coating him in his own juices. Broken, staccato noises cracked the night air. 

The desolate ocean. Its emptiness was here. It was inside him. If only Legolas would fill him.

In the darkness, he was defenceless. There was no wall between him and his pleasure. It was rising. He was drowning in its fire. He flailed for purchase, as Legolas stroked and stroked, and his hand clamped on the elf’s leg as his hips roiled, so close.

The fingers were back at his core now, the heat there molten. Nearly. If he could just... his hips were bucking, chasing orgasm, his mouth frozen in a silent cry, his eyes never opening all the better to  _ feel _ . There was the precipice rushing towards him and -

“Ahh!”

Two fingers drove within him. Legolas’ thumb rubbed tight, clustered circles into the flesh outside, bearing determinedly down, stirring pleasure with every rapid rotation. Then the fingers within him crooked. Aragorn’s body arched into the air, he gripped the great swell of his stomach to him as if it would make any difference, as if the anchor would stem his fall, but it was too late. The wave crested, sweeping him under in its shuddering, gasping tide.

But Legolas wasn’t stopping. His fingers rubbed against the ridges of Aragorn’s channel, his thumb ground aftershocks into the human’s flesh. The moment stretched and stretched until the pleasure sharpened to pain and Aragorn’s snatched breaths became sobs. “Ai! - Aai-“

“Almost done, almost,” Legolas’ voice promised him, though the touch didn’t stop. “Roll over for me, just a little.” Aragorn was turned back onto his side, his belly pressed low into the mattresses beneath him.

He was little more than a raw nerve, blinking in the bright afterglow as Legolas pressed two oiled fingers between his cheeks. Still loose from the night before, they sunk easily inside.

“Can you take me? One last time my love?”

Those fingers were delving, seeking, just a hair’s width more -

“Up a little, nearly - faahhh.” How could pain be so sweet? It blazed through his shivering, oversensitive lower body in a rip of feeling.

“Aragorn?”

“Yes.”

When Legolas pushed home, tears welled in Aragorn’s eyes at the delicious, torturous sensation. When the elf’s hand returned to his still-weeping cock, it was an agony he didn’t want to end. Legolas surrounded him, legs framing him, mouth buried in his neck, nose in his throat, thrusts short, sharp, determined. There was little Aragorn could do but pant, convulsing towards completion once more, too soon, not soon enough.

There, that pressure again, deep within the base of his swollen abdomen. Pressure piled upon the ripples of heat from Legolas’ relentless aim, sharpened by the shivering touch at his tip. Relentless. He wanted to cry out for it to stop, but his hips chased it all the same. The idea that Legolas might stop was far worse. Whispers of nonsense fell from his lips, undammed, “Too much, too much…”

His husband’s slick skin was pressed close enough to merge with his own, the flex of his muscles creating waves of his own flesh. The waves now were becoming stuttering, uneven, the elf’s fists grasping tight, his breath strained and rapid against Aragorn’s ear.

“My love-“ the words slipped into the night from between clenched teeth.

“Here.”

Aragorn twisted, and lips found teeth and tongue for a clashing, breathless kiss before Legolas moaned his release into the gap of air between them.

A chain of desperate kisses followed, desire pouring from one partner to the other as the elf’s hand continued squeezing, pulling, stroking him. It was the fullness that knocked Aragorn into a jerking close-to-dry completion. In his husband’s embrace, his stomach strained with the mass of the twins he bore, his husband within him, the strange internal pressure rising, his husband’s tongue against his... he overflowed. 

Legolas’ touch smoothed over him, his fingers gentling his trembling skin. There was the swipe of soft fabric against his thighs, the base of his belly, before the covers were tucked about him again in a swaddling warmth. The human’s tremors settled beneath the soothing action of the elf’s palms, moulding the remnants of pleasure until they sunk into his marrow. The haze of satisfaction merged with the haze of sleep. Tendrils of tiredness snatched at him.

“Sleep Estel. You need to rest.”

“I was resting,” Aragorn responded in a mumble, twisted by a wry, curving smile even as Legolas’ hand tucked over what once had been his waist. Another kiss was pressed to his collarbone, the second to the curve of his neck. The third, buried into the curls of his hair, was lost as a flood of weariness pulled him under once more.


	2. Chapter 2

The once-muscled body lying in his arms twisted. Knuckles whitened. Belly hardened. Face crumpled and hid. Legs pulled up. A huff of breath, caught in a moment of pain.

Legolas ran his fingers through Aragorn’s curls, fingers massaging a tense scalp, a rigid neck, until – after long seconds passed – the body relaxed again.

Throughout the night they had dozed, skin against skin, until the dappled light of dawn intensified, until the dawn chorus of the birds in the tree tops all about them escalated, and until the pain broke Aragorn from the clutch of sleep with a cry.

The same twist, the same hardening, but this time the knuckles stretched, reached and clenching hard upon Legolas’ wrist.

“Ohh – oh, ai – ah!” In the first, confusing moments of consciousness, Aragorn fought the growing ache within him, bit down upon the sounds spilling from his lips, instinct rebelling against nature.

“Breathe, melda nin,” Legolas urged, the rhythm of his hand in the human’s hair matching the slow rise and fall of his own chest. The air slowly, steadily lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered his husband’s cheek. Calm.

Eyebrows still furrowed, nails still biting, the human struggled to regain mastery over a body once long trained to perform perfectly on command. Slowly, the pain released its hold over him, the contraction fading. Silver eyes, wet with interrupted sleep, locked with Legolas’ own. “It’s happening.”

The elf inclined his head. “I watched as you slept. The spasms are already twelve minutes apart.”

Aragorn nodded, processing. By the next dawn they would be fathers, lest something – no, by the next dawn they would be fathers. He began to rise. Their flesh unstuck.

“Where are you going?”

“I-” The movement halted, uncertain.

“There are hours to pass yet. Rest a little longer.”

As Legolas watched on, Aragorn ducked his head. In the glow of morning light strewn across the bed covers his skin shone like bronze. His hand stroked the long length of his spine, then smoothed outward to caress his stomach. He was so hugely swollen, his belly protruding outwards in front of him, drawing both eye and touch. Broad hands pressed and explored the expanse.

Legolas sat up and back against the pillows, watched as his husband tested the formation of his own body, confirming its readiness. When Aragorn locked eyes with him once more, it was with a smile creasing their corners. “It’s happening,” he repeated, and this time the fear had fled.

“Yes,” Legolas grinned back.

Aragorn could not stay away a moment longer, turning back to straddle the elf as directly as he could, slotting himself at the angle that they found them brought them closest with the bulk of his stomach between them, now jutting past them. The weight of his heavily pregnant, sleep warmed form settled into the familiar position and Aragorn met Legolas’ lips with his own.

There was no force in the world that could have prevented Legolas from pulling his mate in close as they kissed, wrapping Aragorn first in his arms and then hauling up the blankets around them, building a cocoon in which there was nothing but the embrace and flesh and the promise of the lives they were about to meet.

But Aragorn never stopped moving. His lips pulled not just one kiss, but another, and another, mouthing a constant demand with the grate of stubble against velvetsmooth skin, tongue urging more. His hands fisted in Legolas’ hair, winding tight, tugging the elf’s face up towards his. His form, grown so huge, so gravid, rippled. His hips rose and fell with kiss after kiss, his stomach undergoing full undulations. His thighs clamped and tightened on Legolas’ own.

“Go on my love,” Legolas whispered in the briefest break for air his husband’s lungs demanded.

In the tight press of the elf’s arms and the silk of the feather stuffed sheets they shared, Aragorn began to ride his husband’s form. “Oh – oh.” His breaths were harsh, gasped as legs squeezed and flexed. Legolas could feel wetness pooling against his skin. As the human rocked in pulses against him, Legolas locked them closer together, tongue delving deep. His hands were drawn to the bump that held their twins, the stretched skin hotter than the rest, the belly button pushed outwards. He circled it, and Aragorn whimpered. He pressed firmly, up and into its centre, and Aragorn’s hips jolted. He slid his hand further down, and Aragorn grabbed it. Not yet. He gentled a kiss into his mate’s jaw, a gesture of understanding.

The human’s head was thrown back now, his hair tossed in swirling directions as he fought for the friction he needed. He was so wet now, slipping. Legolas licked up the tendons in the human’s neck as a moan broke the air.

Beneath Legolas’ hands, the huge swell of Aragorn’s belly was hardening again.

“So soon.”

“Eleven minutes,” Legolas murmured back.

Rough huffs of breath and the slight creak of timber were the only sounds that broke the birdsong in that secluded, sundappled room as the contraction intensified. Aragorn’s hips kept moving, grinding their way towards completion, now trembling as the sensations of pleasure and pain collided within a single form. Legolas’ own arousal ached.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The pain had come more quickly and was lingering longer.

Carefully, the elf smoothed his palm over his husband’s stomach, rubbing shivering flesh. He received a jerky nod in thanks but his touch was almost knocked away as Aragorn’s own hand dove between his legs. The fight within him brought beads of sweat to the surface of his flesh, and Legolas swooped to lick a stripe up the human’s salt-prickled neck, then fastened his mouth there, tight and hot. He sucked. Felt Aragorn go taught in his arms. He bit, and heard the soft exhalation of relief as thighs became a vice, shook, bucked, then fell still.

The full weight of Gondor’s future King and his two heirs collapsed against Legolas’ chest.

After a minute of featherlight caresses and half-conscious whispers, Aragorn shifted off his knees, unfolding and making himself comfortable once more, draped against white elven skin.

“I fear we will wear you out if that is your solution to each pain,” Legolas admitted.

“Mhmm.” Half laugh, half contented groan. “I will miss this though. How it feels. What it does to you.” A thumb deliberately grazed the head of Legolas’ erection, pressed between their slick bodies, and he yelped at the immediate gutpunch of pleasure.

“Perhaps we – perhaps we should wait until we’ve passed this day before deciding on – on any…” Legolas trailed off, eyes fluttering closed as the hand stroked him, just squeezing enough, just a little too rough as it twisted at the end. “You needn’t. You’re about to birth our children.”

The hand stopped. Legolas’ eyes flew open to see Aragorn pulling away, pushing the bed clothes back, leaving him hard and with arousal humming in his veins. Then Aragorn slipped off the bed, turned, and knelt upon the ground. “Come here.”

Legolas hardly noticed how he moved. He merely thought and he was at the edge of the mattress, his legs split apart so Aragorn’s mouth could engulf him. Heat. Suction. As if the human had not drunk in days. His hum of noise this time was one of pleasure, and it sent vibrations rippling through Legolas’ flesh. Calloused hands caressed the skin of his legs, tracing, feeling them tense. Aragorn’s stomach nudged between them, pushing the elf’s hips wider, wider.

Elbereth, what had he done to deserve this grace? This astonishing creature’s love and touch, his willingness and wilfulness. The wicked sparkle when they locked eyes, his mouth full of Legolas’ cock. His strength and spirit as he carried their children for close to a year, and now this.

“I’m close.” Aragorn knew him so well. It took so little to bring him to the edge. It took so much not to thrust upwards. But the heat didn’t withdraw, Aragorn just sucked harder, rising up on his knees to get the angle just right, tongue doing unspeakable things.

Legolas came with the loudest cry of the morning.

When Aragorn finally released him, Legolas slipped down, off the bed, onto his own knees to slot himself against the human’s side for a gentle kiss. He tasted his own bitterness, smelt his own musk. He shook his head. “Can you even fathom…”

“Perhaps.” Aragorn was looking just a little bit pleased with himself.

The count of minutes he’d been so good at keeping through the night had vanished beneath the onslaught of tongue and throat, but there couldn’t be long left before the pains began again. “We should get you up, and clean and perhaps fed. Can’t leave you there to birth my sons.” He grasped his husband by the elbow to haul him up to face the day ahead. 


End file.
